


this is what death is like:

by heartstone



Category: Original Work
Genre: Author Is Not Religious, Death, Gen, POV Second Person, Peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: you dream.***
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	this is what death is like:

_this is what death is like:_

you dream.

you dream that you are suspended. not weightless, but aware of the pull that has always brought you closer to the earth. it is as though you are in a hammock and the insubstantial fabric it is composed of wraps its warm arms around your body until your vision is all a-glow with a certain softness. it is as though you are hanging from the clouds before the dawn and a shaft of light infuses your skin with a fondness. it is like the sky after a summer rain as the storm rolls away or the brightness seen through your closed eyelids the flushed colour of grapefruit. you have no thoughts too worry of: just the feeling of your body limp in an embrace, the cocoon that enwraps you in the luminesce, dappled so often with the shifting purpled shade of the leaves the breeze blows through so gently.

below where your body hangs is the sound of a stream, of clear water passing by mossy stones. it carries with it the possibility of anything that could disturb you: there is only the glow, faded now, the sound of the slow current trickling by and the lazy wind turning the leaves. you don't even remember your name— or any name. all there is: that you are here, now.

the sway of the hammock hushes you. somehow you know that a long time has passed, but it feels only like a moment that can be contained in a single photograph. the world is a half-nap, one which sounds like it all happens a room over or like a painting that is near to being finished. all that _is_ leaves you with the impression of its tone but nothing more. you and all that has happened to you is a fond, distant memory.

the trees on the bank of the stream hold you up. their branches reach high into the blue sky and there is no sturdier place but between their crooked arms. each cycle of the moon's phases they raise you higher and higher, passing the loop of the hammock to their newer, loftier branches. they do not mind your weight, nor do they think you a burden any more than the long trail of the lichen and ivy that clings to their rough bark. you can feel that you are thankful, in your small cocoon, but you can't recall what the word for it was. and _(still)_ below is the water tumbling like crystal over the rocks, the wind kissing the surface current, the weight of you suspended.

then, heavy-eyed, you wake. eons or mere seconds, who could tell? you aren't so well-formed any longer— your memories are gone and your habits have left. and so it is you find yourself waking to another dream.

wildflowers grow cupped in the tree-roots. the bees hum and the air is coloured with the sweetness of honey, with the dew that beads silver-over-green on the grass and eases the light into scattering colours like many small prisms. though there are many colours they are washed through with time like a beloved garment. lingering over all is a haze gold and pale, as though the sunlight has dropped its beams to a quiet brilliance. and within... the wind pulls from its many foliate instruments the sound of waves breaking on a shore that stretches out beyond sight and sound.

you stand. breathing here is easy, the air fills your lungs with a clarity even as you are coaxed back to the desire of sleep. there is nothing now that holds you back— no customs, no language, no reflection, no appearances to keep or power to hold. you know without thought that there is nowhere else you'd rather be. there is no more pain to be had, no more pain for you to give. there just _is._

the curled fronds of a fern brush your fingertips and mud speckles your ankles as you run. the air rushes by you cool but not cold. it is as though you are finally free. the mist swirls and the world is endless. you can feel that it is endless within and without you, and that you were just borrowing that forever for but a little while.

the wind whispers. it tells you of sleep. the forest you were born in has turned to meadow, turned to shore. the rhythm of the tree branches swaying and their many green sails is now that of a bottomless, horizonless water.

you don't even remember running anymore.

there is snow here instead of sand. it is cold but you don't feel it: your naked skin is numb in a pleasant way, like it was losing touch of sensation. the beach is that of muted greys and the soft glimmer of frozen white that smooths with the opalescent foam of the sea. the water sighs just as you do and the urge to join with it is all you know.

you find a spot where the rocks have been smoothed by the caress of the waves, the perfect size to cradle your lethargy. the spray fills it, recedes. fills and recedes with foam. you lay within it and are covered: the water's hands are like many gentle kisses.

above, in the sky of a thousand colors and a fathomless clustering of stars in the enormity of what is and what will be is an infinity— where it touches the water it multiplies as a mirror facing a mirror. the sun that is so close is dimmed, covered by the earth's ancient companion. the silver body of the moon haloed with the pale orange of the sun's fading glow blinking to velvet-lavender, to the eternity of the void between the myriad other stars. laying in your bed, the sea takes you with it, dissolves all that you are into the smallest elements. you are returned to the ocean again and in the pattern and cycles of its waves you are not aware that you have become a part of the trees, the breeze, the birds.

it is quiet forever now.

***

_empty hills, no one in sight,_

_only the sound of someone talking;_

_late sunlight enters the deep wood,_

_shining over the green moss again._

**Author's Note:**

> Half of this was from a dream I had and the other half was brought on by my sister, who wondered how I thought that the lack of an afterlife would be peaceful, concerning my lack of belief (or indifference towards) an intelligent or traditional God. Also likely staying up too late and for too long had something to do with it (who doesn't love the occasional existential crisis??).  
> I want to be sure that I do not intend this to be the "truth" despite the boldness of the title for this work. I like to be open to other interpretations of these types of things, and by no means do you have to agree with the same things I believe. But this is what I take comfort in.  
> The final poem ("Empty hills...moss again.") is by Wang Wei, translated by Burton Watson. Believe it or not the music I listened to while writing this was the Animal Crossing: New Leaf song "1 AM" on the piano :D  
> This will make the note long, but oh well. My favorite quote has always been by Edvard Munch and sums up everything I feel so well: "From my rotting body flowers shall grow. And I am in them, and that is eternity."  
> If you are reading this: thank you <3 Seriously <3 You can probably tell this different from what I usually write and I was debating about posting it in the first place, but I haven't not posted anything so why start with this?  
> ***


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